Peter's Mother-in-Law

After leaving the synagogue he entered Simon's house. Now Simon's mother-in-law was suffering from a high fever, and they asked him about her. Then he stood over her and rebuked the fever, and it left her. Immediately she got up and began to serve them. -- Luke 4:38-39

I've always had a sneaking sympathy for Simon's mother-in-law. Frequently mothers-in-law are the topic of bad jokes, hurtful comments, or scorn. But just as often, mothers-in-law are loved, respected, and invaluable helpers. With Simon's, I'm not sure which was the case.

She isn't even important enough to give her a name, just her relationship to a relatively important character. She makes a very brief cameo appearance, without a word being spoken. Yet, she does, even briefly, take center stage in a miraculous recovery and a testimony to the power of Jesus.

She was suffering from a high fever, a signal of something severe, in a time when antibiotics and pain relievers were unknown, for the most part. Imagine being sick and not being able to take medicine to fight the illness, manage the fever, and accompanying discomfort. Healers could try their limited resources of herbs, but sometimes they didn't work.  Peter must have loved his mother-in-law (or at least his wife) to ask Jesus to come to his house to help. Perhaps the offer of lunch or a hearty snack accompanied by wine was a lure, but probably it was merely native hospitality since Peter lived near the synagogue.

Undoubtedly Jesus knew of the illness by this time and very probably offered to help. Immediately after he rebuked the fever (which people associated with possession of evil in those days), the mother-in-law immediately got out of bed and headed for the kitchen to cook for the whole group as if she'd never been ill.

That's where I find myself wondering about the episode. Granted, I know that Jesus had healed many people who folded up their blankets, got up and walked, or who immediately were able to see or hear. Where my pensiveness comes in is when I consider that the crippled, the people with epilepsy, the deaf, and the blind, even the woman hemorrhaging, had been suffering their various disabilities for long periods. Most of those were able to get around in some fashion as they had learned to do for years. For those with illnesses like severe flu, infections, recovery from surgery, or COVID-19, find that one doesn't just pop out of bed like a jack-in-the-box and pop back into the kitchen to make a good meal for a group of people as if nothing had happened. Most of us would barely be able to crawl out of bed to relieve ourselves or even move to the couch by the television. It may take several days to recover enough to feel halfway normal. Still, Jesus's healings seem to have been complete, even to the point of returning the person to absolute normalcy instantly.

I bet many wish they could have such healing from Jesus. People with painful cancers often suffer great pain that even the most potent pain relief treatments can't ease. Those with breathing problems gasp for air, even when sucking on oxygen provided by tanks and machines that force the air into diseased lungs. Many hereditary diseases and syndromes cause pain, even to small children, that are difficult or even impossible to treat. Older adults, crippled by strokes and compounded by various dementias, can do nothing but lie in bed and simply wait for death. We often pray to Jesus for deliverance for all of these, but it seems Jesus has a deaf ear, because nothing happens – or does it?

There are times when, if we happen to think of it, we might wish that we had Peter for a father, brother, son, or son-in-law. We'd even take him as an uncle or a cousin five- or six-times removed, so that we could claim him as a family member and ask for his help that way.

We can call Jesus our brother, and we do ask for his help in times of trouble, stress, pain, and anguish. If we can, we consult the best doctors, take the best treatments and medications, and hope for good results. Still, even when hope dims, a tiny flicker of it fights for life, like a guttering candle.

Perhaps the point of Peter's mother-in-law wasn't so much about an ill and useless person being healed and jumping up to return to normalcy in minutes as it was about trusting Jesus to perhaps not cure us of our illnesses and diseases, but to heal us of our need to control everything in our life. There's a big difference between the two states – healing and curing.  A cancer can be cured, and the person can go into remission, but the person can also have the disease and put it in God's hands, to hand it over, to trust God to do what is best, regardless of how it turns out.

Peter's mother-in-law was both healed and cured. So was Lazarus, the woman with the hemorrhage, the man let down through a hole in the roof,  and many others in the gospels. They were cured of their illnesses, diseases, and even lifelessness. Still, they were healed so that they could return to everyday life as testimonies to God's grace and Jesus's healing.

God bless. 

 

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café, September 26, 2020. 

A Lesson from a Cat.

He was born about nine years ago or so, one of four born to a feral mother. He was the only one with medium-long hair and a classic tabby marking and coloring. He grew up feral, eager enough to eat the food a human brought him, but not allowing any contact and very strict social distancing that surpassed even the Covid-19 virus spacing. 

The kittens were too small and too frightened to be trapped for neutering, and I was reluctant (and also monetarily deficient) to take them to the vet’s office for vaccinations and health checks. Slowly, the kittens began to suffer from upper respiratory infections and the like, and one by one, they succumbed. The mother had wandered off or perhaps died somewhere away from the kittens who were by that time weaned and independent. The only surviving kitten was the one who came to be known as “Classy” for the spiral tabby markings on his sides. He didn’t escape totally; his eyes became infected, and one became cloudy while the other seemingly came out unscathed. After more than a year, I finally did get him trapped, neutered, and returned, with the promise that I would continue to feed him and take such care of him as he permitted. It took him a long time to let me get even ten feet away from him after all that.

Several years passed, and each year he let me get maybe six inches closer to him. He would listen to me if I sat down and talked to him, but there wasn’t enough trust for touching or petting. He accepted food but thanked me by waiting until I had moved some distance from the food dish before giving me a look in the eye and moving slowly to the now-replenished food.

I don’t remember precisely when he first got close enough for me to touch him. He immediately backed up and didn’t allow me to get that close for quite a while. Slowly he got closer once again, and this time when I tried to touch him, he permitted it for a second or so before moving off a couple of feet away.  He continued to get closer, though, until the day when he discovered that a touch on the head, if allowed to go on, developed into head-scratching and ear-rubbing. He found that these were quite pleasant, and as long as I didn’t get too ambitious or move beyond those touchpoints, he was amenable to more of it, even before eating.  Several times he’s been frightened enough to avoid my closeness for a week or so. Still, eventually, he allowed me to leave his bowl in the open door of the shed rather than on the patio, and finally for me to go in before I filled the bowl. He even made biscuits on the wooden floor of the shed and purred as I scratched his head and ears. Then he would eat, having found that trust had given him not only a full belly but the pleasure of comfort and enjoyment.

It occurred to me that sometimes I act like Classy when it comes to Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit. For a while, I go along, trusting and beginning to do the human equivalent of purring and kneading when I feel trusting and trustworthy.  Then something happens that makes me doubt that trust, and I move away until I can slowly regain my balance and my confidence.

I’m sure others like me have frights and memories that pop up at inconvenient moments and upset the hard-won feeling of faith and comfortableness.  Looking at Classy retreating but then showing a willingness to try again to have those feelings of pleasure and connectedness with another creature, I remember that even if I don’t knead the shed floor or floor pillow, I am willing to try again. Even if I physically back away from those who want to show their love for me as I did for Classy when I was trying to get him to let me pet him, It’s hard to back away from God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit sometimes, especially as they have ways of being persistent and loving during the process. Like a cat, I may go and try to hide under the bed or in the closet or even outside somewhere, but they always find me and lure me out and one step closer.  Slowly the trust is rebuilt, and all is well.

I wonder – where today am I in danger of backing away and hiding from people who love me? Where am I when I feel the Trinity is getting too close or too intimate? What bowl of kibble can God put in front of me to encourage me to see the blessing it entails, not the possibility of danger? What can I do to retain the feelings of comfort, confidence, and returning to God the love that God has for me?

 I see I have a lot of work to do. I’ll keep looking out for, feeding, and showing Classy that trust doesn’t have to mean hurt or danger. I’ll try to remember that lesson myself when it shows up in my daily life. Just as I have patience with Classy, so God has patience with me. All I have to do is trust that.

God bless

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, September 19, 2020.

Sitting in Silence

A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him, I may think aloud.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson


Another day of 115 degrees in our part of Arizona.  Another day of staying at home, seeming to spend most of my speaking time practicing the particular dialect of cat that my fur-kids continually pour in my ear. Another day of munching on peanuts and drinking iced tea. I’ve about Midsomer Murder-ed out, and ambulance programs from around the world as well as programs about how some planes crashed. I’ve noticed there are far fewer programs on TV that interest me than there are programs. But that’s life in the pandemic zone, I guess.


I was thinking today of how life used to be. Admittedly there used to be fewer parking places at malls and stores, as well as churches, schools, movie theaters, restaurants, and lots of other sites (ok, sports stadia, golf courses, exercise gyms, and museums). Things are starting to pick up a little, but the danger isn’t over. I’m sure I overthink my own health, not to mention the health of others with whom I have to come in accidental contact to risk giving (or getting) a nose full of ugly little viruses that might do me (or someone else) in. Life was more fun before all this stuff currently going on. It was a bit more exciting, educational, entertaining, and a lot less tedious. But, with God’s help, those days may come again,


One thing I really miss is friends. Oh, granted, I can still pick up a phone and talk to them, and these days I don’t have to worry about who else on our party line is listening. Oh, wait, maybe someone I don’t know IS listening, but I’d rather not think about that. Talking on the phone, or by text, email, or even by letter (if God grants that we will still have a post office to carry our mail back and forth), is nice, but it’s not like having a live person in the same room, feet propped up on a hassock, sipping tea, munching on cookies or pizza, and talking about any- and everything from the state of the world to what is on sale at the big box store this week. Sometimes the very best times of all is having the aforesaid friend sitting in the same room, etc., and neither of us saying anything at all. That is really the mark of real and loving friendship, the kind when we could talk about trivia, but instead, simply sit in companionable silence.


So man people have trouble sitting in silence, doing nothing, saying nothing, even thinking nothing.  We’ve gotten used to soundbites, videos, movies, comedies, dramas, or watching who comes and goes down the street. Books with audio versions are taking the place of substantial, calfskin- or paperbound books. I confess, I love my Kindle without sound, which lets my mind’s voice set the stage and direct the action.


I think back to ancient nights, millennia ago, where villages and tribes sat around campfires and listened to elders tell stories of the ancestors, stories that those who heard were supposed to pay attention to and remember so they could pass them on to their progeny. One of the main parts of religious life in monasteries and convents was the balance between work and silence, reading, chanting, and prayer. During meals, one person would read from scripture or some religious volume, and the others contemplated what they heard as they ate their simple meals. In chapel, there were periods of prayer but also periods of silence which had the intent of listening to God, Jesus, the Spirit, or saints, or contemplating something they had heard or read themselves. In a way, it was a method of sitting in silence as with a beloved and close friend, one where words were not necessary but would be welcomed, heard, and contemplated in turn.


Emerson, like many of his time, considered that men were suitable for friendship but that women were worthy of taking orders, overseeing or doing the housework, and only really speaking when absolutely necessary.  Despite the passage of decades, centuries, and even millennia, some still believe that this is the true and right course. Yet those who are real friends, no matter their social, cultural, economic or gender status, or even widely divergent in age, can enjoy sitting quietly or sharing their deep thoughts without fear of ridicule, dismissal, or fear.


We often hear that we should sit quietly in prayer to God daily, not merely presenting our petitions, thanksgivings, or whatever, but simply sit with open minds, still hands and feet, and just listen for what God may wish to tell us. I remember the first time I tried centering prayer. The instructions were to sit quietly, without thinking of anything, and, should any thought appear, simply note that it appeared and then dismiss it and return to the empty mind again.  It was hard because my mind was so used to taking control of silence, but gradually I found it got easier. I can’t say I can do that for long periods of time, but I know the more I practice it, I can increase the stillness of mind for longer and longer. I look at it as a way of physically doing what Emerson encouraged, and, furthermore, what saints, prophets, and deities have helped us to do since time immemorial.


God, Jesus, and the Spirit are supposed to be our good friends and guides. What better way to recognize this and encourage listening for messages from them than to patiently wait in silence? Now, in this time of isolation, perhaps we can make friends with silence – and with God – by using the exercise of sitting silently and patiently. I know I can do that, and then go back to my reading, knitting, or whatever.

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, August 22, 2020.

My Good Idea for This Week

The pandemic continues. One thing in its favor is that it gives me time (and no reason not) to do things around the house that need doing. I've already thrown out more stuff in the last three months than I have in the past three years, and there's still more to go. Once in a while, though, I run across something I haven't seen in ages, and it brings me up short, remembering the who, what, when, and where the thing came into my hands.  It was a birthday card from an elderly friend I'd known and loved for close to 70 years. We hadn't talked on the phone for a while, and she wanted me to know she remembered my birthday and loved me very much. The night I found that I found myself mourning her death about three years ago, and how I'd never get to talk to her again. As if this week weren't bad enough, the grief just piled on like whitecaps on a rocky beach.


The next morning I felt a bit better, although there was still some gloom there. I suddenly thought of another friend whom I've known since before I could walk. Her phone number was only one digit different from my birthday card friend, and I wondered if it was still working. It was a bit of a risky move for me, but what the heck, it was the closest thing to an adventure I can experience, given the quarantine, low finances, and the distance to back home. I dialed it, and lo and behold, a familiar voice answered. I almost cried. I hadn't talked to her in probably fifteen years, and all I had to say was "Hey" and her name for her to know it was me. I started to laugh, and so did she. Even at over 80 years of age, her voice and her laugh haven't changed an iota. It was like we hadn't spoken since yesterday.


It was a real pick-me-up. Of course, we had things to catch up on and chit chat as well, but we talked for over an hour. It was re-establishing a bridge and a bond that I've missed but have just been too afraid or perhaps too lazy to repair. Oh, well, it's done now, and things are all for the better.


In less than one hour, my depression and lack of energy had lightened. It occurred to me that perhaps I need to get in touch with old friends a little more often before they too become residents of a place with no politics to argue about, no illness to handicap them, and no sadness to weigh them down. If the amount of love I have for them were enough, they'd be in the highest ranks of the heavenly host. As it is, I'm sure their lives here and how they lived them are much more important than just caring about and loving a little kid who grew up and then moved away to other places. No matter where I was, though, they still cared, and my knowing that was such a great blessing.

I remember when the phone was used only for local calls. For long-distance, it had to be something truly significant – a birth, a death, an engagement, or a check-up call on an ill family member who was too far away to visit. I remember being quite homesick at college, so I risked a long-distance call to my family simply to hear their voices. Calls cost money, and we had to be very frugal with it. Now I (and probably a lot of other people) think almost nothing of picking up a cell phone and calling someone on the other side of the country (or even the world) to ask a question, offer congratulations, or just get caught up on the local goings-on. For me, that's a change for the better. And I don't have to fight the bookie or the bootlegger on the party line to be able to get a call through!


Jesus didn't have a cell phone to use to call his mother once a week. Sometimes that's hard to think about since our worlds are so different. There wasn't an internet with access to newspapers all over the country, even small local ones, where a person could keep up with what was going on back home. I wonder – would Jesus had used Facebook or Twitter?  Would paparazzi have followed him around, taking flash pictures and jostling for soundbites? Would the message have gotten across as Jesus spoke it, or would it have been slanted to fit someone else's agenda? Would the Bible we use be even recognizable to us, or would the latest translation or interpretation jostle for a place on the New York Times Best-Seller List?

As much trouble as we have realizing that the writers of the Bible lived and wrote in very different times and cultures, we can't assume that our understanding is the right one until we have checked to see what the first hearers would have heard and comprehended.  Things that the people at the sermon on the mount understood would be very different today. At least with today's media and long-distance, we can hear and read a lot of different versions and try to gauge what is correct and what isn't. Even then, we aren't always sure.


For now, I think I will just settle for choosing the scholars who I understand to be accurate and correct in their interpretation. I'll skip reading the news until things calm down, both pandemically and politically. If I feel down, I'll call someone I haven't talked to in a while. It might just be that they might be wanting to hear a real person with a friendly voice with whom they can talk about anything they want (and skip what irritates, ticks them off, or makes them sad).  Now that's a real gift from God!  Please pass it along!

God Bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, September 5, 2020

Images and Prayers

There are a lot of images around these days that have come to symbolize this past year. Images are photos, cartoons, magnifications, paintings, sculptures, and just about anything that symbolizes or represents someone or something, real or imaginary. Images are regular features in online media as well as movies and television newscasts or advertisements, to name a few. They become iconic, representing people events we need or want to remember, such as 9/11, Martin Luther King Jr., damage from Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, atrocities of ethnic cleansing around the world, and natural disasters arising from weather phenomena.

This year we seem to have had more than our share of icons, most of which are still around and probably will be for some time.  For one, take the image/representation of a COVID-19 virus. Yes, it illustrates one of the significant problems in our country and around the world today, but taking the same image, changing the colors and backgrounds, enlarging it, minimizing the size, and seeing it everywhere doesn't seem to be getting the message across that it is a killer, and that people need to take precautions for themselves and others to decrease exposure and reduce the statistics of cases and fatalities. Images of masks and their use, illustrations of social distancing, and repeated warnings don't seem to be getting across to those who most need those warnings, namely those who don't believe there is a pandemic and that it is a dangerous situation for people of all ages.

Images of signs, posters, murals, buttons, and street art surrounding the Black Lives Matter cause have been around for months and even longer. Those images represent the continual problem of innocent Black people, especially young men, both guilty and innocent, simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or that they were mistaken for a threat to others by merely being Black.  Gun violence has also been a plague that has taken the lives of countless people, many of them innocent of anything other than being in the path of a bullet fired by someone trying to prove a point (or remove a rival).

We are used to images like crosses on churches, hand scales on government buildings dedicated to justice, pictures of politicians and public figures (whether they're being praised or arrested), and advertisements for everything from computers to stomach soothers. In short, imagery is everywhere and serves a multitude of purposes.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that featured an American flag with the stars arranged to spell out "Pray." It made me stop and think about what it represented to the owner of the vehicle and what it meant to people merely reading it as it passed by. It is a symbol within a symbol, to my way of thinking. The representation of the flag itself marks a division between those who idolize this country and its past (good and bad) and those who see a country that needs changes in some of those traditions (good and bad).

 Then there was the word "Pray." It is a given that prayer is something we Christians and other faiths are encouraged to do. We are supposed to pray for family and friends, in thanksgiving for the good things of life, asking forgiveness for something we have done wrong, and even pray for our neighbors, whether we like them or not. Hardest for me these days is to pray for some individuals I loathe for their behavior, the misuse of their power, and feelings of superiority because of the color of their skin or their religion. Images of their faces are often enough to make me scroll down to cover it on social or news media, or quickly flip the page in magazines and newspapers. Still, the Book of Common Prayer has intercessions for officials, regardless of party or behavior. Priests remind us to pray for those we have trouble loving (much less liking), and peace, health, and safety in times of trial. This year, 2020, has undoubtedly been a year full of those times of hardship.

Thinking about the bumper sticker, America truly needs prayer these days.  Instead of becoming more polarized, the citizens of this nation need to come together to help one another through the tough times we encounter every day. Fires, floods, heat, sickness, death, homelessness, violence, supremacy, divisiveness, fear, and anxiety are situations affecting millions every day, and, whether specifically called out by those names in the Prayer Book or even the Bible, Jesus encouraged us to pray and to love our neighbor, which sums it all up rather nicely. It's impossible to wish ill on your neighbor and love them at the same time. So perhaps in addition to prayers for the nation and its leaders, victims, and situations of peril, we should pray for our country and its problems.

One good way to pray for the nation is to work for its healing.  Work is a way of praying with one's whole being, whether marching for justice, campaigning for causes that support bringing people together and correcting wrongs, writing to representatives encouraging their support of such causes, and praying continually for peace, safety, health, and acceptance of diversity. God is a great healer, but God needs our hands, hearts, minds, and voices to get the message across and accomplish the goals.

Perhaps I need to send up a prayer every time I see one of those images that remind me of what is going on in my country and my world.  I have a feeling I'll be spending a lot more time in prayer than usual for me, but that would probably be an excellent thing.

God bless.

PS. I subsequently learned that the bumper sticker was a product of the Christian Broadcasting Network. I'm afraid I have to disagree with most of their positions. Still, I can certainly pray for America and its needs to the God of my understanding.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday 12, 2020.

 

 

Celebration in a Time of Trial

Politics. Pandemic. Unemployment. Riots.  Fear.  Shootings. Racial marches and murders.  Natural disasters. Looting. Increasing poverty. Homelessness. Scandals. Anxiety. Warfare between neighbors in neighborhoods and countries. Shortages of food, soaring prices, and empty shelves in stores. Children separated from parents and kept incarcerated. Churches, businesses, and schools closed. The list could go on and on, it seems.


The year 2020 has undoubtedly been one that I think most people would like to forget.  It hasn’t been one to brag about, honestly.


I’ve been thinking about all the negativities we’ve been putting up with lately. It truly isn’t something new, just a kind of tornado of things all at once, it seems. Like a  house of cards or a tower of wooden blocks, it could fall over or blow over at any second. Oh, did I mention lots of recent earthquakes, perhaps not immense ones, but large enough to cause damage and death? Also, there are hurricanes, monsoons (except in Arizona), fires, and other natural disasters and diseases that have shaken the world a bit. No, 2020 probably won’t go down as the most fantastic year in the history of the world, and much of the world will be very glad to see January 1 come in.


But I’ve started thinking about friends and loved ones who have come and gone in my life. Just in the next few weeks, my best friend celebrates her birthday. Two dearly loved friends would celebrate their birthdays had they lived until this year. My late husband would also have turned 100, and we would have had another anniversary, but those are simply memories now. On the plus side, I have another anniversary of sorts, the eighth year of being cancer-free following my surgery. There are a lot of things to remember, both with joy and sadness, and all of them can be seen separately from the list of negatives I listed at the beginning of this reflection.


With all the turmoil and such we have around us today, people still have anniversaries and birthdays. Children are born, and people of all ages die of various causes and reasons. While deaths are often tragedies, they can be relief from pain and suffering, both for the patient and their families. Not all can be like that, though. The shooting death of a young person at the hands of law enforcement, or an innocent victim of a drive-by shooting, the mugging death of an older adult, or even the drowning of a young but unsupervised child in a pool or bathtub are all things that could be prevented. Could be, if we just tried to prevent them.


Still, there are celebrations like a baby shower, an adoption, a wedding, a 50th, 60th, or 75th anniversary, the completion of an educational course, the start of kindergarten or college, the purchase of a new house, starting a new job, and a hundred small things that represent family traditions or reasons for parties. Unfortunately, so many of these get-togethers have been curtailed this year because of the pandemic, and so many have felt depressed or deprived because they can’t have the hugs that would accompany such events.  Many devout prayers are going up that next year will not be a repeat of this one.


There is one more celebration that we can’t share at this present time as we would typically do, and that is the celebration of the Eucharist as a community gathered in one place. Churches have done their best to present videos and Zoom meetings to bring the service to people who have access to online or streaming services. At the Peace, hugs can’t be exchanged, and the bread and wine of the Eucharist itself can’t be blessed and given personally to those who would present themselves at the altar. Still, we hear the Word of the Lord, the praise of the Psalms, the presentation of the Gospel, and the sermon that helps us understand what has been read, and how we can use those words to go out into the world, as much as we are able, to do good and show the love of Christ to all people.

There are also daily services for those who are at home, probably more services than they have ever attended before. There are services of Compline to conclude the day with prayer, reflection, and quiet music. Those too are celebrations in their own way.


So as I sit and ponder, I have concluded that I should pay more attention to the celebrations put before me and less to the gloom and doom list that I seem to run into everywhere. I should be thinking of every day as a celebration of life – mine and others – and give thanks for the beauty and goodness around me, no matter how hard that might be to find sometimes.


Happy birthday, happy anniversary, happy graduation, congratulations on your wedding, anniversary, new baby, new house, new job, and any other cause for rejoicing, even small ones like the cat getting off the table when asked (that’s a real celebration around here!)


Praise the Lord for all that is good, and even stuff that may be bad at the time but which later on may be revealed as something quite the opposite.  The pandemic may have shown us that we are all brothers and sisters in the same boat, we are all responsible for one another, and we can still pull together to help each other get through this time. We are stronger because we can do things we didn’t know we could, and that’s a lesson we can take with us throughout the rest of our lives.


Oh, and one more thing. God is with us, in good times and bad, and loves it when we express joy and thanks. Be sure to invite God to your next celebration, even if it is just the two of you.

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, August 29, 2020. 

A Lady Named Mary

Once there was a lady named Mary (Miriam in Hebrew, Maryam in Syro-Aramaic). The name wasn't particularly uncommon in first-century Middle Eastern culture, as could be demonstrated by the number of Marys in one place during the last days before and after the resurrection: Mary the mother of Jesus; Mary, the mother of James and John and wife of Zebedee; Mary Magdalene; Mary, wife of Cleophas; and Mary, sister to Martha and Lazarus, not to mention others who weren't named in the Bible but who were part of the nameless faithful who followed Jesus.


We don't know much about the one we call Mary the Virgin except that she was an upright and faithful young woman, devout, obedient, and unmarried. She was betrothed to a man named Joseph, but she was still a virgin.  The first mention we have of her is during what we call "The Annunciation," when an angel appeared to her from God and told her that she was chosen by God to be the mother of God's son. From what we read in the gospel, Mary questioned the whole thing but meekly accepted the situation. I often wonder what she would have said had this event happened a millennium or so in the future. Would she have been so meek and mild, as we have been taught to portray her?  Would she have asked more questions?  Would she possibly even have said no to the whole thing?  I wonder.


The next thing we hear of Mary is that she went to visit her cousin Elizabeth, wife of Zechariah, who was pregnant with a child later known as John the Baptist (or Baptizer). She stayed there for about three months, returning home after the birth of John. I wonder what that trip home was like? Did she wonder what her parents were going to say? What about Joseph, the man to whom she was betrothed when she up and left so suddenly? Surely she must have had contact with her family during the time she was gone. Did her parents want to rush off to Elizabeth's to bring her home at once? What did they do once she finally came home?  Did they hide her in the house to prevent a lot of talk about an unmarried pregnant woman from their family living in their house?


She went on the trip to Bethlehem with Joseph now that they were considered married. The story fills out with angels, animals, shepherds, and a simple but private place for the birth of Jesus to take place. Later, magi brought expensive gifts that would be helpful on the family's journey to Egypt and back. The family went on one more trip to the Temple in Jerusalem when Jesus was about ten years old, where the parents managed to lose him for about three days before they found him still in the Temple, talking with and learning from the rabbis.


Mary doesn't appear again until Jesus is grown, and he escorts her to a wedding in Cana. Somehow someone miscalculated the wine, and the family of the wedding party faced real embarrassment by running out. Mary told Jesus to do something about the situation, but at first, he objected, saying it wasn't his time yet. Being a mother, she simply told the servants to do what Jesus told them to do, and the family honor was saved.


The next time Mary appears in the story is at a synagogue where Jesus was teaching. Mary and Jesus's brothers and sisters showed up, demanding he come home because he was thought to be insane. Somehow Jesus walked through the crowd unseen, and the family went home empty-handed.

Mary was named as being at the foot of the cross as her son died, and was among those who came to the tomb on the morning of the resurrection to do the burial rites there had not been time to do before the sun went down. The day of crucifixion became the evening that began Sabbath when no work, purification, or anointing, could be done.  There were several more references to Mary as living in Jerusalem with her sons who had risen in the leadership of the church, and then she seems to disappear.  


So why is Mary so important? Millions of women have become mothers, but only one was the mother of Jesus. She taught him his first lessons and who watched over his early steps. She was present throughout his whole life and even at his death. She was present after the resurrection and probably at his ascension into heaven. That made her singular among all the mothers of the world.

Growing up in a faith when Mary was really only mentioned during the Christmas season (we didn't "do" Advent), and during Holy Week and Easter, it has taken me a very long time to see Mary as a significant influence on the belief and practices of the church. In some theologies, she is close to being or is actually considered to be like the fourth member of the Trinity. She is sometimes seen as a balance to the male-dominated Trinity and in a position somewhat like the mother goddess of other world religions. In a time when women were discounted and marginalized, Mary became a guiding light, a mother figure, and a representative of what an ideal woman should be.


Even now, Mary is a treasured part of the church, a mediator between humans, Jesus, and God, and a representative of holy women throughout time. The Hail Mary is as well known as the Lord's Prayer, and the Magnificat is part of Roman Catholic, Anglican, and some Protestant worship. Mary's influence has spread internationally, and she has been portrayed as an image of peace, unity, love, and nurture. She seems to be a figure we can all look to and try to emulate.


Hail, Mary, full of grace…


God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café, Saturday August 15, 2020.

A Grain of Joy

Matthew 17:14-20

I have a feeling that lots of people have suffered from some degree of anxiety, depression, or the blahs for the past weeks and months. Here, in Arizona, at this time of year, we do estivation, the summer variety of winter hibernation. It's too hot to be out doing a lot of running around, even if we didn't have social distancing, mask-wearing, isolation, and air-conditioned cars. As much as I love my abode, my cats, my books, knitting, and British TV programs, it does get disheartening from time to time. But then, I do have to go out occasionally for groceries, cat food, ice, and medical appointments. It's nice to get out, but I'm more than ready to come home and stay put for a few days or even weeks at a time.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in a sort of funky mood.  Sleeping was a favorite pastime, no matter what time or however long my naps lasted, I still slept well through the night. The next day would be the same until my body said it was time to quit sleeping and do laundry, dishes, house cleaning, working on knitting projects, and sometimes spending a whole day reading a book.  I was watching one of the British medical reality shows I enjoy watching. That particular episode featured new parents cuddling the newborn when suddenly s/he screwed up their face and sneezed just as if they had been doing it for years instead of the very first time. I don't know why it happened, but suddenly I had an experience of joy I hadn't had in weeks or even months.  I still feel rather happy when I think of that scene, as brief as it was.  I am still not sure why it was such a joyful moment, but it kept me in a joyous mood for hours.

Reading the Eucharistic gospel for today, I thought again of that brief interlude on the television. In the reading, a man approached Jesus and asked him to save the man's epileptic (a first-century belief ) son from the demons, causing his fits. The disciples had tried their best to heal the boy but had been unsuccessful. Jesus then proceeded to tell the disciples about a mustard seed and how it's size indicated that even a small bit of faith could enable them to move mountains. The boy's father had faith that Jesus could heal the child, while it seemed the disciples didn't have enough – yet.

That story reminded me that it didn't require total, absolute, complete faith to bring about miracles, although it helped. It also occurred to me that amid the darkness, a tiny ray of joy can lift the spirits and relieve the sadness and gloom, enough to bring relief and a memory of what happiness felt like, especially after a long anxiety- and depression-ridden period.

The mustard seed, especially the breed known as the black mustard, is small, about 1/8th inch, although the bush itself can grow up to or even slightly more than ten feet in height. It can begin growing in as little as one day and does not require cultivation like other plants. Mustard has been used as a medication for conditions like arthritis, rheumatism, and occasionally cardiovascular disease, cancer, or diabetes. As Southerners know, mustard greens can be cooked with additions such as bacon or fatback, into a delicious and healthy green vegetable. And we mustn't overlook the variety of condiments consisting of mustard mixed with salt and various types of vinegar and other spices, that is a staple topping for hot dogs, potato salad, egg salad, and other meats and dishes.
  
Just as a mustard seed can grow to a bush over ten feet high and up to twenty feet across, it begins as something small. While other seeds may be smaller, the mustard grows wild, usually in fields where other things do not grow without cultivation. It represents the growth of faith and the nourishment and healing that comes from it, as well as the spreading of the teachings of Jesus. As well as the growth of faith, it can represent the joy that can spread without a lot of care and tending. Looking at a field of mustard, the bright yellow flowers against the green foliage in dry climates, the colors form a glorious and colorful image that can be joyous, especially with a bright blue sky as a background.

Seeing that baby sneeze on the television program made me look for the small flashes of joy that can pop up anywhere and everywhere. I've noticed my dreams have begun to be happier and more thoughtful. I've found moments of pleasure and enjoyment, however brief, have come more frequently. I think I've found a kind of mustard seed all my own that grows like faith.  

I think I'm finding a new interpretation for the story of the mustard seed, at least, for me, anyway. It encourages me to keep looking, even for newborn sneezes.  I truly believe that this is the lesson I am to learn today, remember for the rest of my life, and pass along to others. It may not stop pandemics, but small steps of faith, the actions that move us forward in the search for the kingdom of God on earth, bring us all closer. I can hope, anyway.
God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul at Episcopal Café Saturday, August 8, 2020.

The Prophet Who Lost His Head

Matthew 14:1-12


John the Baptist was a famous man in the gospel stories. He was an itinerant preacher who has more recently been called John the Immerser or Baptizer by some Christian traditions, John the Forerunner in Eastern Christianity, and the Prophet John in Islam. He was a prophet who preached about preparing for the Final Days, the coming of the Messiah, and the need for repentance and cleansing. John himself was the subject of a prophecy by Isaiah, “The voice of one who crieth in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord” (40:3), and also in Micah. He was related to Jesus’ mother, Mary, through Elizabeth, her cousin. He also baptized Jesus and recognized him as the one sent from God as his messenger and the Messiah.


Like most prophets, his prophecies got him in trouble with those who had things John exposed that the perpetrators preferred to have either covered up or otherwise conveniently disposed of.  John’s particular “crime” was speaking against the so-called “marriage” between Herod Antipas (son of Herod the Great) and Herodias, wife of Antipas’s half-brother, Philip. Antipas fell for Herodias and convinced her to leave Philip and move in with him. John was not afraid of calling Herod Antipas out on this. It didn’t earn John any popularity points with Herod, and even fewer from Herodias.


Herod had John arrested and thrown in jail. One evening Herod, the lecher, held a big party, and Herodias’s daughter, Salome, danced for Herod, maybe with seven veils, perhaps with fewer.  At any rate, Herod was so enthralled by her dancing that he promised to give Salome whatever she wanted. When Salome asked her mother what she should request, Herodias told her to ask for John the Baptist’s head on a platter (maybe silver, maybe gold). Salome conveyed the request to Herod, who promptly ordered it to be done and brought to him at once. Herodias got her way, Herod had the problem of a living prophet speaking openly against him silenced, and Salome (this one out of many Salomes) got her 15 minutes of fame.


This passage is a sort of mirror of what we have today. I don’t think I need to draw a picture; the stories are in the news every day. Perhaps we don’t have a dancing Salome or a scheming Herodias. Still, we do have an image of cover-ups, the silencing of prophets and those who spread the messages of those prophets, the oppression of the poor, the aliens living within our lands, the imprisonment of not only adults but infants and children, autocratic declarations, pardoning the guilty and arresting the innocent, and the spreading of false information, much of which costs thousands their lives. Sorry, I guess I did paint a picture, but it is one I see every day. I think it caused me to pay particular attention when the passage from Matthew came up for today.


The Kingdom of God is not for the people who consider themselves the Elect; every person on this planet is a child of God. If God had a refrigerator door to hold pictures of God’s children, it would stretch to infinity to keep all of them visible. And God loves each one of them.


I have problems with some of those children of God who hurt other people, animals, or even the earth itself, much less all of them at once. I have trouble praying for them, and I certainly have difficulty forgiving them for the injuries they have caused in the search for self-gratification, amassing wealth for themselves, or even their grasping for power and prestige. I know I’m supposed to love them and pray for them, but I think I’d have had trouble praying for Herod and Herodias too. It’s a comfort to me to know that God’s heart and hands are big enough and loving enough to enclose all of us, no matter whether I think they are unworthy, rotten to the core, or uncaring about anyone other than themselves. God doesn’t always seem to protect the prophets who try to draw attention to things Christians and others should pay attention to, but that has often been the plight of prophets since the job of prophet first appeared.


I have to confess that I have seen myself as a kind of Herodias at times, planning, plotting, and executing a plan of revenge on someone who has seemingly wronged me. Maybe I’ve been a Salome who danced once or twice with a few veils on, trying to impress someone higher up the food chain than I am. Perhaps sometimes I’ve wanted to be a prophet and gotten my head handed to me on a platter for trying to warn someone about something I saw or felt was wrong or needed fixing. The government knows my name, but in what context and for what reason? Only God and the government knows at this point. Besides, there’s enough for me to worry about in the daily news. The simple truth is that I have to trust God to look after me and give me a nudge where I am supposed to go.  


I also need to learn who are the equivalents of John the Baptist in terms of prophecy and who are the Herodiases who hold massive grudges against them. That is as simple as reading the words of Jesus and see who is living those words and those who speak the words but put a spin on them that point in the opposite direction.  We’ve lost a few this week, may they rest in peace. But there are others out there, speaking in the wilderness, preparing the way of the Lord, preaching the love of God and their fellow human beings. Some have grown into that calling, some are just experiencing it now, and some will come into the promise in the future. It’s time for us, including me, to search for the prophets, listen to them, heed their prophecies, and follow their lead.


Perhaps something as simple as renaming a bridge or a school is a beginning. I think so, anyway.


God bless.

Bloom Where You're Planted

It's 6 pm and 111 degrees Fahrenheit outside. The sun's still up, but gradually moving toward the western horizon. It's been sunny all day, and it looks like it will continue to be that way for some days yet. For those who have had lashings of rain and inclement weather, I'm sorry, but could you please send some rain this way?  I think the last month when we had rain was February – oh, wait, we did have 0.03 inches in May, but that was a long time ago. I know we had a wet winter, but, dear Lord, couldn't you spread it out just a little throughout the year instead of lumping it together over a single month or so?


I know God made the world with different climates and temperature zones. God made mountains and valleys, glaciers and swamps, seashores and deserts.  God also created people to live in all those places, each with the ability to use the climate, the growing zones, and the weather patterns to sustain their lives. Animals lived in the same way, adapting when necessary. God was pretty smart to do all that and using only imagination, creativity, and sometimes mud.


Now the polar icecaps are melting along with glaciers,  which are millions of years old. Fires are again burning scrub brush and old-growth forest alike.  Some shorelines are being built up,  while others are suffering erosion. The clear skies are often dirty brown, and people with breathing problems are suffering from increasing episodes of asthma and decreased ability to breathe. God made a perfect world, but human beings have done much to destroy the beauty and balance that existed at the time of creation.


There are traces of primeval forests at the bottom of lakes and swamps.  Humans have found seashells in the materials that make up high mountains.  Petrified wood is proof that trees existed in places where they are very scarce now. I wonder, did God create the world to shift things around from time to time? If the magnetic poles switch positions from time to time, do floods, earthquakes, volcanoes, and other environmental events occur the same way – on some schedule God put in place to shake us up once in a while?


The calendar changes, the seasons change, the weather changes, and people change. It all seems to be in some great plan unknown to us, but that certainly doesn't mean that it is not known to God. But God also put free will on the earth for humans to make decisions for themselves, to choose to do good or evil, to do things that make life better or worse.  That free will means they can choose to protect the earth and the beings that inhabit it or elect to live selfishly, tearing the ground apart, leaving footprints of greed in every corner, and bruised and broken bodies in its wake.  It creates deserts of blowing, choking sand, and rising tides that flood the land, drowning all that stands in its path.

I can see what frustrated the prophets of old who could, with the help of God,  clearly see what was happening yet were seemingly unable to make the people see it too, much less change their ways.  People watch the weather reports today, but don't always take notice of warnings. Even with signs, meteorologists, hydrologists, geologists, vulcanologists, and dozens of other -ists can't always forecast or predict how dangerous things are going to get. It seems to be the only time we think about "Acts of God" is when some kind of disaster comes around, even if we were cautioned, and prepared for what we believe is the worst that can happen.


Moses predicted plagues to strike Egypt. God had warned him and told him to tell Pharaoh. The king might listen, after two or three of these "warning" plagues, but usually wasn't about to pay attention to warnings of something that might happen but what would surely deprive him of bricklayers, farmers, and other workers if he acceded to what Moses said God wanted. We know what happened in that story.


There's a saying that goes, "Bloom where you're planted." Yes, even in a desert without rain. Our desert certainly isn't the worst place by any stretch. I guess what I have to complain about is so inconsequential to what others have to suffer through that I sound pretty wimpy. I may be tired of a pandemic that I didn't start. I may not see the end of it, but that doesn't mean I can ignore it and the safety precautions that modern prognosticators like the CDC say I should obey, like wearing masks, staying six feet apart from others, and staying home, especially if I am sick. We've found out that the hot weather isn't going to improve things, and I don't know if we can wait for snow and freezing temperatures to see if maybe COVID-19 doesn't like the cold.


Meanwhile, I will sit at home, read, knit, talk to the boys (my cats), and pray for rain. The earth around me needs it, and the fire danger grows higher every day. We've already had several severe fires in the mountains as well as in the Valley, but more are sure to come. I'm sure God has something in mind, even if I don't know what the plan is.


It's up to me to do what I can to bloom here in the desert. It's also up to me to trust God to take care of me – with some help from me, of course. A flood starts with a single drop of water.


God bless.

Originally published on Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, July 18, 2020.